The Writer
by HeartlessFreedom
Summary: After TGG, Sherlock attempts to both reconcile his friendship with John and possibly, hopefully, move into a deeper relationship as well.  *This is my first fic ever and it's still a WIP. Also, this fic is based on the song "The Writer" by Ellie Goulding.


So I finally finished this fic and decided to reformat it into one chapter. Mostly cause I hate the shorter chapters and I hate not finishing a fic once started. I fear that this is quite OOC for both John and Sherlock and so fluffly that poor Agnes is having a heart attack with her unicorn.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. As in nothing. I wish I owned stuff. Owning stuff must be nice, but I hear you have to have money for that...

* * *

The sun was just pouring through the slit in the curtains when Sherlock woke. He kept his eyes closed and ran through a mental checklist.

**Question**: "Where am I?

**Answer:** "John's Bed in his room upstairs."

**Question:** "Where is John?"

**Answer**: "Lying next to me"

**Question**: "Is he still asleep?"

**Answer**: "From the steady breathing sounds and arm curled around Sherlock's waist, it appears so.

**Question**: Why am I lying in John's bed with him after actually sleeping through the night?

**Answer**: "Well that's a bit complicated isn't it?"

Just then he heard John's breathing quicken and his body began shaking. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John's face cringed in fear? Anger? Hatred? All three? Before he could fully decipher his _friends_ face, John woke with a gasp. Sherlock watched John quickly sit up and met his eyes. He was careful to keep his face neutral. John had not said a word to him since they had left the Emergency Room yesterday afternoon.

John had remained silent during the cab ride back to the flat. He had said nothing as he allowed Sherlock to follow him to his room. He had merely changed into some nightclothes and crawled into his bed. However, when he saw that Sherlock just stood there staring at him he had sighed and pulled the covers back in an unspoken invitation for Sherlock to join him. Once the two of them has settled under the covers John had quickly dropped off to sleep. Sherlock must have nodded off shortly after.

Sherlock came back to the present to find John was gone. He had left Sherlock and the bed without a word. Sherlock briefly wondered if John would ever speak to him again. Was he truly that angry?

Sherlock headed downstairs to the living area. There was no movement in the flat.

"I guess he's left for work," Sherlock announced to the empty flat. Somewhere in his subconscious, he hoped that John had gone to work and it was not something more drastic. He simply couldn't leave 221B and Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't allow it.

Sherlock lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling. He folded his hands under his chin, a commonplace pose of prayer to someone who did not truly know Sherlock. Which would be just about everyone with the exception of Mycroft and John.

_His John_. Wonderful, Confusing, Currently Angry, but altogether Indescribable John. He truly was indescribable, because for all the words and categories Sherlock could ascribe to John, Sherlock could never find one that made sense. He could never find one word to sum him up. The only adjective that actually described his flat mate was, in fact, indescribable.

The fact was, at the present time, John was angry with Sherlock. Or perhaps hurt? The result was very much the same in either case. Sherlock's flat mate was not speaking to him, and Sherlock needed to fix that, because somewhere between seeing John step out in that damned vest and John's offering to die for him Sherlock had realized just how vital John was to _everything. _Somehow, despite all the things Sherlock thought would never happen, in spite of what he had stated would never happen, John had made Sherlock _feel_.

Moriarty was to be blamed for much of John current mood. He had upset the balance of John and Sherlock's tentative friendship and when Sherlock had met him in that pool a mere 68 hours ago, the bomb was not the only thing to be destroyed.

Yet, it was not something he could deny that for all the scratched and wounds caused before jumping to their salvation in the pool, Sherlock was the one who had caused all of it. He was the one who had planned to meet with the bomber. He was the one who had lied to John and had taken the plans as an offering to a madman. He was the one who had put John in danger. _He was the one who had made John his heart._

He lost track of the amount of time spent on the sofa just thinking of John. Before he knew it he could the footsteps headed up to the flat.

As the door opened, Sherlock attempted to direct a genuine smile at John hoping that John was no longer angry with him.

"How was your-" Sherlock was interrupted by John.

"Sometimes I think I actually understand how you feel Sherlock. I am almost certain every idiot within a thirty miles radius of the clinic came in today to plague me with idiotic questions. At least half of my patients today had common colds and there was nothing I could do for them. Don't they know how to use the Internet for anything other than porn these days?

John's rant continued as he made himself a cup of tea, which he carried up to his room, leaving Sherlock behind.

A flustered Sherlock decided it was best to let him have a nap before trying to talk to him again today.

When John did wake from his nap, Sherlock was sitting on the end of his bed holding his violin and staring out the window. He turned to face John and found him staring at Sherlock's violin.

"When are you going to speak to me again John?" Sherlock asked scanning John's face. "Are you going to leave me?" He asked this in a quieter voice, trying his best to hide his discomfort at showing his vulnerability.

When John didn't answer, Sherlock moved to leave the room. He was stopped when John grabbed his shoulders, turned him around and pushed him against the wall. The only emotion Sherlock could deduce was anger, and something different? This was something that hadn't been there only a few days ago. This was something that Moriarty and the pool and the hospital had brought about.

"I am allowed to be angry at you Sherlock. I am allowed to be hurt and confused and as many things as I want, because I actually feel. I use my emotions instead of_ burying_ them like you do." At this his grip on Sherlock's shoulder's tightened.

"I'm sorry John. I never meant to bring you into the mess with Moriarty. I tried to leave you out of my mess for once."

"Well you didn't. You got me kidnapped and blown up. Didn't you? And you know else? I thought I was going to have to watch you die as well. But let me make this very clear to you Sherlock. In the few months I've known you I have saved your life multiple times now. I make sure you eat often enough to keep you alive and sleep enough to function. I run around all of London following you in your quest to catch criminal and I patch all of the wounds you get while catching them. Most recently I offered to save your life by ending my own at the hands of that bastard Moriarty. And do you know what that means Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing, too afraid to anger John even more.

"It means, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, that you are **_mine_**. I take care of you so you are mine. I get to keep you. **_You aren't allowed to leave me_**," his voice begins to shake with emotion. "You don't get to make plans to meet a bomber who is out to kill you, or depending on his mood, to convince you to join Criminal Consulting business, as it were." He pressed his face to Sherlock's chest, tears streaming down his cheeks, and his hands now holding Sherlock's shirt and pulling him closer. "Don't you dare try to leave me, _because I can't live without you_."

Once Sherlock got over the initial shock of John crying into his chest, he wrapped his arms around him.

"I'm sorry John. I didn't know. I need you. Please forgive me. I can't live without you either."

"God, Sherlock. Do you know how scared I was for you?" John voice is muffled with his face buried next to Sherlock's collarbone.

"I can only imagine as scared as I was. I am sorry John. I caused all of this. I'm the reason for those burns and scratches. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't know he was going to…" Sherlock pauses. "God, I didn't know it was that obvious."

John struggles to pull out of Sherlock's embrace.

"What's so obvious? What are you talking about?"

"That you've come to mean so much to me," Sherlock replies.

For a minute John, thinks he must be misunderstanding, because there's no way that Sherlock would ever admit to having feelings. There's no way that Sherlock would admit such a weakness in his own mind. John had assumed the embrace and kind words had been an act to make him feel better. A bit like the awkward "there there" like Sheldon Cooper had offered Penny when she had fallen in the shower on _The Big Bang Theory_. It hadn't even occurred to him that Sherlock might have meant it.

"What do I mean to you Sherlock? Who am I to you?" John asks.

"I'm not quite sure anymore," Sherlock admits uncomfortably in his baritone voice. "I know that you're my flat mate and that I don't like it when you're gone. I know that despite the fact that I can deduce so many things about you, you still manage to surprise me. You always manage to keep me on my toes and guessing. I know that I don't want to share you with anyone and that I've contemplated a more physical side to relationship. I also know that I don't know how to do any of this.

I can fake emotions, and I know my way around the physicality that is involved, but to actually engage in a relationship? To attempt to be honest and compromise and actually make things work? I don't know how to do that."

With that admission, John takes Sherlock's hand and lead shim to sit down on the bed.

"Well is that what you want then? Do you really want to try to be in a relationship with me? I know I'm really only five years older that you, but I feel much older than that. I've seen too much and been broken too many times, but you manage to make all of that meaningless. I'm a soldier Sherlock. Give me some orders and I can run with them. I'm also a doctor, give me something broken and I'll do my best to mend it. Since you're mine, I'll take care the best I can and protect you to my death. You just have to decide if I am yours in return."

Sherlock is staring at John. For once, he does not seem to be deducing several different things, while thinking up experiments and trying to figure out how long he can go before eating again. For once, he seems to be right there.

"Well, you're my blogger John. You're the writer. So why don't you help me find the right words? Why don't you be the writer and mold me from clay? Consider me yours, if you'll be mine and you can teach me how to do this?"

"How about instead we just figure this out together?" John replies and pulls Sherlock into a warm embrace and reclining them back onto the bed. "For now, lets just sleep some okay?"

* * *

And that's pretty much the end. I suck at writing kisses or anything like that without basically repeating and rewording everything else ever written so I decided to spare you all.


End file.
